


Bloody Hell

by ggfoye



Series: Feysand One-Shots (Fluff, Smut, Angst) [4]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mating Bond, One Shot, Post-A Court of Wings and Ruin, Protective Rhysand, Territorial Rhysand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26554870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggfoye/pseuds/ggfoye
Summary: Rhys feels a painful tug on the mating bond and rushes home to find a very weakened Feyre.One-shot.I do not own any of the characters, Sarah J. Maas does.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Series: Feysand One-Shots (Fluff, Smut, Angst) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942270
Comments: 5
Kudos: 126





	Bloody Hell

"The governors will deal with these matters at hand. And then we cross that bridge when we come to it..."

A tug. A sharp, painful, writhing pull on their bond, yanking on his rib. It sucked the air out of his lungs and kept him from continuing to speak.

 _Feyre?_ , he called out urgently.

No answer.

Just a glimpse of blinding pain in his stomach that made him freeze in a shocked, aching expression and clench his hands tightly over the table. The governors and their advisors looked at him cautiously. The meeting room went dead silent.

He tried again. _Feyre_.

Yet again, nothing.

He pulled on the bond to make sure she was there, refusing any alternative. Her presence still stood on the other end of the thread, solid and tactile. But he could sense her weakness, a palatable sense of despair and agony. His mate was in distress.

Without so much as a word, Rhysand winnowed out of the room. His face probably told his subjects enough.

Standing in front of their townhouse, he immediately sent his magic out to check if she was in there as he already stormed in. A feeble spark of her essence was detected.

The smell, though, was what caught his attention.

Blood. Her blood.

"FEYRE!"

Rhys jolted up the stairs. His alarm was such that he figured winnowing would take longer than running, given the rush of adrenaline in his veins.

"Feyre!"

A faint murmur came from the other side of their bedroom door.

"Rhys."

He opened the door with such urgency that it was almost ripped from the wall.

Feyre was on the ground, resting her head on the threshold of the bathroom door as if she'd used it for support to avoid completely crumbling down to the floor. Clammy skin, pale face, shuddering lips, and deep, deep agonizing pain painted her eyes. 

Rhys rushed to her side, his fae senses already scanning the room for menaces, assessing her physical condition for probable causes and possible fixes. But nothing seemed wrong. Except for that insistent pungent smell of blood.

Rhysand pulled her to his lap, becoming even more desperate as he felt how intensely she was shaking.

"Feyre, what happened? What is it? Tell me what's wrong," he pleaded.

"I-I don't know," she stuttered.

 _I think I'm dyin_ g, _Rhys_. She added mentally, as if she'd realized even talking took too much of her strength.

Rhys blocked out that last part. He got up and laid her down on their bed carefully, already sending word out to Cassian and Mor to summon Madja, his most trusted healer. Rhys slid behind her on the bed, leaning on the headboard and pulling her to him, pressing a quick kiss on her forehead.

"Don't even say it, Feyre. Don't even think that," he snarled. "Now, are you bleeding? Your scent is almost off, completely engulfed in blood."

_Yes. If I didn't know any better, I'd think I was on my period. But this... Rhys, this doesn't feel right. At this point, I think dying would be a relief._

Rhysand went completely still, his body turning ice cold. And although her words had stung him, ripping something deep and dormant in his chest, he felt a small wave of relief. And then a huge one of guilt.

They hadn't warned her. They hadn't had the time or the thought to it with everything that went on after she turned fae. _He_ hadn't warned her. He was her mate, and he hadn't remembered to walk her through this. How could he have been so ignorant and absentminded?

Feyre had only been part of the fae world since recently. Most of her life she'd spent as a human. And maybe because she'd grown accustomed to it and fit into it so naturally, he completely forgot to explain some basic fae biology to her.

And although he was comforted by the fact that he now knew what was going on with her, still he tensed immediately at the reality of it. Fae cycles were not easy. They were brutal, excruciating and comparably much more lasting than human ones. Even the most powerful faes could fall extremely ill to the collateral effects; their magic would be practically drained out of them because the body would use it entirely to keep itself functioning.

Rhys shuddered, thinking of how the next weeks would be for Feyre—and for him. He couldn't stand seeing his mate in pain, and it'd be unbearable to not be able to do much about it. However long she'd be in agony, he'd be too.

She was _vulnerable_ —and that realization alone awoke a roaring, primal beast inside him, raging with protectiveness over her. He could swear even his pupils had dilated in that moment, and he instinctively tugged her closer to him.

"Feyre, darling," he tried using a soothing tone, but the tension behind it was palpable. "This is your cycle. It usually only comes once a year, maybe less, maybe more. I am so incredibly sorry I didn't prepare you for this. I should've... I can't believe I didn't...", he shook his head, unable to find the words.

"I can't begin to imagine what you're going through right now. But I'll be here the whole time, I promise. I've already called for Madja to come and we'll see what she can do to get you more comfortable, okay?"

She nodded faintly, but he could see in her eyes how much she was suffering.

 _How long is this going to last?_ , she asked through the bond, and he could sense her hesitation and fear of asking that question.

 _About two weeks, my love_ , he replied regretfully.

Her heart leapt painfully in her chest. She couldn't do it. She couldn't stand all those days in that scrutinizing pain. Every nerve in her body felt twisted and curled, straining itself and her limbs to an insufferable point. Her insides seemed to be convulsed and stiffed in all the wrong ways, twinging and cramped up tight, unable to relax. She felt like there wasn't enough air in Velaris to compensate for the breathlessness in her exhausted lungs. It was almost comparable to when Amarantha had tortured her Under the Mountain.

Unable to hold back, she let out a high-pitched whimper. Rhys' chest ached at the desperation in the sound. She dove her face on his shoulder and he stroked her hair gently, shushing her calmly.

"Feyre!", someone screamed from downstairs.

A few seconds later, Cassian stormed inside the room and rushed to their side.

"What happened to her?", he demanded worriedly, also scanning the room for threats. But then his nostrils flared and the understanding settled in him, especially after checking Rhysand's expression—staring straight at him with anger in his eyes, like he was trying to contain a growl. "Oh."

Cassian took a step back, considerate. He'd usually take Rhys' episodes of fae territoriality over his mate as an opportunity to bait him and pick on him, but this was different. Feyre was in pain, and he didn't want to leave Rhys even more unsettled than he probably already was.

"Mor went to get Madja to winnow her here," he said, and Rhys nodded, restrained. "Is there anything I can do?"

"You can get out of here," Rhys replied coldly, pulling Feyre closer to him.

 _Rhys_.

Feyre's weak reprimanding voice in his head brought him back to earth, whisking him away from the trancelike state of pure vigilant shielding of her.

"I apologize, Cass," he said, calmer, "I'm just... a bit on edge."

"I get it. No worries. I'll be downstairs if you need me," he said, then turned a genuine look of concern and solidarity towards Feyre, "I'm sorry, Feyre. I hope Madja is able to do something. Get well soon."

She forced out a smile, but by the look on both of the males' faces, it hadn't been convincing. Cassian left, and soon after they heard a knock on the door. Mor entered with the healer fae, making space for the female to come closer to them.

"Cass filled me in. I'm so sorry, Feyre. I should've warned you. I should've prepared you," Mor shook her head frustrated, "You'll get more used to it in time, but the first ones are usually the worst. It hurts to speak, doesn't it?", she asked, noticing her friend's complete silence. Feyre nodded, closing her eyes. Mor frowned uneasy, then looked at her sympathetically. "I can stay with you whenever Rhys is not around. Trust me, I can relate..."

"I'm not leaving her side," Rhys interrupted.

Feyre turned her eye to him. _You can't be in bed with me for two weeks. You're the High Lord._

_Exactly my point. I can do whatever the hell I want—I'm not leaving you._

_Rhys... you don't have to. And you shouldn't._ Feyre insisted, though every bone in her body begged her to simply let it go, let all morality aside and just have her mate be with her through all of that.

Madja began, unaware of the conversation they were having mentally, "My High Lady. This is your first fae period, is that correct?", Feyre nodded. "Alright, then. As Morrigan said, this ought to be one of the worst. The pain lessens with time, though most fae still have to stay in bedrest for most of it. I will give you some tonics for the pain, but they won't take it all away. I'm afraid nothing can."

Feyre shuddered perceptibly at her words, and Rhys held her tighter.

"I will also give you some herbs to help you sleep and to calm your nerves. If after all of this, the pain doesn't become more bearable, I'm afraid the only option is to put you to sleep until it's over. It's a more radical approach, but there's no shame in taking it, if you'd like."

Rhys looked at her pleadingly. She didn't know. And she didn't know if he was more concerned about her being unconscious, unable to express herself, or if he'd be more worried watching her through it all. His expression was so tortured she almost felt guilty for being so scared and upfront about how much pain she was in. The least she could do was try not to drag him down with her.

But... but what if they put her to sleep and the pain didn't stop? What if it induced her into such a heavy state of unconsciousness that she wouldn't be able to wake up to ask for help or scream when the pain became too much? She shook her head, troubled at the thought.

Her mate patiently waited for her to answer into his mind so he could tell Madja. She could see he was trying his hardest not to let show his agony at seeing her like that, but she knew him all too well. His eyes were darkened and his muscles were tense around her.

_I'll try the tonics._

Rhysand told Madja and she began preparing some mixtures on glass bottles over their nightstand. She instructed Rhys on how and when to take them—as Feyre seemed too far gone in her own pain to be able to listen carefully—, then Mor winnowed her back, leaving them alone again.

_Rhys. You can't drop everything for me._

_I absolutely can_ , he replied firmly.

_I'm sure you have more urgent important matters to attend to._

_There's nothing more important than you._

_I'll be..._ —Feyre was going to say "fine", but she knew that wasn't true. Not when her insides seemed to have been shredded into pieces and then put back inside her. — _here. I'm not going anywhere. You can check on me every now and then._

_No. And that's not up for discussion. If you're worried about getting tired of me, I'll stay in the next room. But I'm not leaving your side._

Feyre frowned uneasy.

_I could never get tired of you._

He was able to upturn his lips lightly. _Good. Then it's settled._

Rhysand kept a watchful eye on her the whole time. He'd caress her back soothingly, carry her to the hot bath he'd drawn her, change the bloodied sheets, bring her food in bed—he tried feeding her, but she didn't take that so well—, hum calming songs inside her mind and tell her many of his stories—about wars, adventures, Velaris, the illyrians, his mother, the dreams he used to have about her Under the Mountain... anything to distract her.

Feyre had been worried he'd get tired of staying in bed or locked in a room all the time, but he almost seemed to enjoy it—apart from the times he'd have to embrace her as she writhed in pain or hold her hair as she threw up violently due to how much it hurt. They almost never had time like this. To just stay unworried and unbothered enjoying each other's company. Despite the context or the pure physical hell she was in, she, too, was almost glad for it.

In one particular night when Feyre was drenched in cold sweat and shaking throughout her whole body, crying and moaning in her sleep, Rhys almost lost it. He just had to find a way to ease her suffering. The sight of her so tormented and anguished brought back too many memories he forced himself not to think about anymore, but that would always emerge in his worst nightmares. It was unendurable. She was his mate, his life. He had to find a way to make it better.

His mental talons reached for her familiar adamant walls, but found nothing. She'd been so weak she couldn't hold them in place anymore—her gates were wide opened.

There was nothing there—in her dream. Just flashes and glimpses of Rhys, their family, the Bone Carver-boy, among other trivial things. But there was a constant whimper of pain in the back of her mind.

Rhys played to her the song he'd sent her on her cell Under the Mountain. And as the melody streamed as background to her thoughts, he began inserting new ones. His own. Like her small human hands painting flowers on the table in her family's old shack—his first image of her; the first time he saw her at Calanmai, how he'd followed her intoxicating scent. The words in his brain when her eyes first met his—how he thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd even seen.

He showed her the gut-wrenching panic that showered him when he heard her in Amarantha's throne room; the pride and joy and admiration he felt when she threw a bone at Amarantha after killing the Middengard Wyrm; the surprise when she tossed her wedding shoes at him; their first dinner out in Velaris with the Inner Circle, when he was filled with relief upon noticing she looked alive after so long; their argument in the Summer Court and their toast after—when he first allowed himself to feel hope; the first genuine smile—beautiful, heavenly, he added—she ever directed at him, at Starfall; how amazed and stunned and completely falling to his knees he was when she conjured herself illyrian wings; how overwhelmed he felt when he first touched her on their night at the inn; how utterly happy he was when she woke up in his arms for the first time. Then there was more, like the knee-buckling relief that threatened to undo him when she opened the door for him to enter when he flew to the mountain cabin. The rejoice and exhilaration upon hearing her say she loved him. Their short but endless hours consummating their mating bond. Their secretive wedding in the middle of the night.

So many memories—he couldn't pick a favorite. But she did. And she let him know.

After a while diving into Rhys' recollections, seeing through his eyes, she began inserting her own perspective on the same events. The pain was still there—they could both sense it. But it wasn't overthrowing her anymore. It was almost tolerable.

And so she murmured, _This is my favorite. Here, now. In your arms. Every moment with you is my favorite memory._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos welcome :)  
> I take in requests for Feysand and Rowaelin one-shots, so feel free to bother me with those lol


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